Monday at Manchame's

Happy Valentine's Day! In the interest of posting at least once a month this year (*knock on wood*) I offer you a short story rather than an essay. Enjoy.

Monday at Manchame's 

Fran, as always, sat cross-legged, leaning forward as Benji made some kind of joke. It probably wasn’t very funny, but she would laugh because that’s what she always did. Her hair was pulled back with a blue headband, dark brown curls and kinks surrounding it like a thicket. 

She noticed Benji staring at her hair through his horn-rimmed glasses, but decided not to say anything about it. He had been looking at her with an odd expression the entire morning. When they met up at the park, as they always had on Mondays, he wore a crisp button-down shirt, which was alarming. She could see faint sweat stains on his armpits, felt disgustingly aware of how dirty her white sneakers were. She was happy they were hidden under the table at the diner. 

“You excited to get outta this small town?” Fran asked, hands cupped around a glass of pink lemonade. Her question was still a bit bumpy from giggling. 

“Hm…” Benji leaned back against the fuzzy cushion of the booth. He pressed his index finger into the seat, felt a lint ball slide under his nail. His lips scrunched together, he cocked his head to the side. “A little bit, I guess.”

“Only a little?” 

“Well, a lot.” he chuckled, rolling the lint between his finger and his thumb. “I don’t know, Fran, I’m happy to go away to school, but--”

“It’s complicated,” she finished, brown eyes on the stack of pancakes between them. 

The two of them had shared pancakes at Manchame’s Diner for a decade, but the cloud of carbs remained untouched that whole morning. They ordered them because that’s what they did every Monday morning. And this was the last one, the most important. 

“Complicated is a good word, I guess.” Benji rubbed the back of his neck, wondering which one of them would cut into their food first. “I won’t miss most things about Freeport, but I’ll miss this place a lot.”

“And me, of course.” Fran took a sip of her lemonade, felt its tart sweetness spread on her tongue. 

“You?” 

“Yes, me.” Her fingers wrapped around her fork, pushed it into her pancakes. 

“Will I miss Francesca Leigh?” Benji shook his head, pushed his horned-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m trying to get the hell away from her.” 

“Screw you,” Fran set her fork down, watched the steam from the pancakes circle above them. “You’re gonna miss me the most.” 

“I am?”

“Yes, you are.” she nodded, “You’ll be sitting on a beach, sunburning between classes, and think to yourself--‘damn, I miss Fran. Queen Fran, my hope and inspiration, she would have sunscreen.’”

“You’ll be here.” 

“Benji.” 

“Fine.” he smiled, “The city. You’ll be in the city, just as far from me as I’ll be from you.” 

“Ha!” Fran nearly knocked her glass over. “So you will miss me.”

“I didn’t say that.” 

“Yes, you did.” Eyes back on the pancakes. “But it’s okay because I’ll miss you, too.” 

Benji took a breath, allowing silence to settle between them. The buttons on his collar seemed tighter than before, and he tried to remember why he didn’t just wear a t-shirt. Fran said he looked like a hipster when she found him waiting for her at the park. 

“A button-down in August is a bit much, Kwan.” she said, chuckling. He wondered if she felt herself blushing. 

He would miss hearing that chuckle and the clipped sigh she’d let out when he was being annoying and all her other odd sounds. He would miss the way her eyebrows leaned towards each other when she studied, the cogs of her brain moving in triple time. He sort of missed them already, but she would never hear him say so. That would make college and adulthood and the near 3000 miles that would separate them real. And it was the last Monday of the summer, the last carefree, happy Manchame Monday. It was to be enjoyed. 

“You know what I’ll miss the most?” His hands found the half empty jug of maple syrup at the corner of the table.  

“Tell me.” 

“Mr. Manchame’s pancakes.” He pushed the lid up with his thumb, ignoring the crystals of dry syrup that stuck to his palm, and poured. 

“Oh, pancakes are great, but Manchame--what a guy, am I right?” Fran cut into the pancakes, popped a syrup soaked triangle in her mouth. 

“Y’all need something?” Mr. Manchame’s grizzly voice tiptoed from behind the front counter. He looked up from his newspaper curiously.

“No, thank you, Mr. Manchame.” The words came out the same way every time Mr. Manchame butt into a conversation. Simultaneously from them both, full of respect and a warm sort of irritation.

He had eavesdropped on their discussions for as long as they’d been friends, eager to provide a scoop of ice cream when Fran lamented a subpar test score or lemon tea when Benji felt sick. He added two cubes of sugar because Benji liked sweet things. Always. Mr. Manchame knew that a quick pat on the back and something to eat never failed to make the two of them feel better. 

“Want some coffee?” he called back, leathery hands rubbing his chin. “I’m about to put some in the machine. I can put ice in it--make it perfect for the rest of the day.” 

“That actually sounds really good.” Fran whispered, eyes flitting from Benji to Mr. Manchame. 

“Maybe when we’re about to leave? Is that all right?” Benji asked. 

“You got it.” And with that, Mr. Manchame returned to the paper he pretended to read. 

“I love that nosey man so much.” Fran said, smiling at a memory she couldn’t quite place. 

“How could you not?” Benji sighed, swallowing another bite of pancake. “I mean, he’s got the best food in town. And always guesses the winner for Homecoming.”

“Oh my god, Homecoming. I completely forgot about that.”

“Ah, yes, that’s right.” Benji nodded, “You’re going to that no-campus, no-good-sports-teams, fancy schmancy school.” 

He laughed louder than he meant to when she flipped him off. 

“Don’t be bitter, Franny.” 

She scrunched her nose at the nickname, the image of an old grandmother painting itself in her mind. She felt warm and fuzzy and gross at the idea of getting older. What if one day she liked being called Franny? The woman who went to that big university just to end up a Granny Franny, knitting and cursing out kids from a porch that needed painting. Maybe Benji would be there too, reading a book. He’d wrinkle well, grow into a cute old man with deep smile lines and crow's feet. 

An ugly knife of a thought cut through her fantasy. What if they didn’t make it that far? New York and California weren’t close. Phone calls and video chats couldn’t facilitate the talks they had walking home from school--they wouldn’t even be able to talk about the same things, the same people. And no more Manchame Mondays. 

It’d happen slowly, the fading away of them. They’d text a lot, call from time to time, and then drift apart. Benji’s new friends would become old ones; the friends who would know his favorite food spots and listen to new songs with him. They would know when he was homesick and wanted his mom’s noodle soup. When he fell in love for the first time. 

She looked up at him. 18 year-old Benji Kwan, with a constellation of pimples scattered along his face. The outline of a mustache teased itself above his pink lips, and she found herself wondering what it would feel like to press her face against his cheeks. 

“Ooh, look.” Benji swallowed more food. “One pancake left. What are we gonna do?”

Fran pulled cash out her back pocket, stood up and looked for Mr. Manchame. He must have gone to the back room. 

“You can have it.”

Benji may have said something, but she wasn’t paying attention. She realized she loved him staring at that last pancake, and it killed her. Crushing her bills into a ball, she walked over to the counter, tapping the silver bell beside the register. Ring. 

“Hey, Fran, what’s up?” Benji ran to her. 

“Nothing.” she mumbled, shaking her head as she tapped the bell again. Ring. 

“False.”

Ring. 

“What?”

“That’s false, Fran.” Benji leaned against the counter, pointing to their raggedy booth. “You always eat the last pancake.”

“No, I don’t.” Ring.

“Yes, you do.” He took a sharp breath in, pressed his lips together. “We get to the last pancake. I ask what we’re going to do. You make fun of me for it. I pretend to cut into it. You pull the plate to your side and you eat it. That is what we do.” 

“I don’t feel like it today,” she sighed, drumming her fingers on the counter.

“Today? The last Manchame Monday?”

She’d had it. 

“Benji, just leave me alone!” Her scream rippled through the room, bounced on all the windows and all the doors. 

Mr. Manchame rushed out the kitchen, two iced coffees sloshing in his hands. 

“Franchesca, honey, what’s wrong?” The old man asked, looking from one teen to the other. 

“Nothing, nothing.” Fran smoothed her money out on the counter, brown hands trembling on cool marble. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean. . . I didn’t mean to yell, Mr. Manchame. Please forgive me. I’m just ready to go home.” 

“Here,” Benji whispered, placing his cash in front of hers. “I’ve got today.” 

“No, no, no.” Mr. Manchame pushed the money back and pointed to the coffees. Before they could object, he raised a hand in the way elders often do. “You can pay me back when you bring your smarty-pants college friends here in the fall.” 

They nodded, unaware that they moved at the same time. Fran grabbed both their drinks, shivered at the condensation on the cups.  

“I want to see you both before you go off to school. Promise me you’ll come by.” 

“Of course we will.” Fran said, trying to give him an earnest smile. 

She walked out the diner, held the door open with her shoulder. She knew Benji would follow her, and hated him for it. She couldn’t run, she realized, not from him. 

“Fran, seriously, what’s up?” Benji got in front of her. “You can’t just shut me out.” 

“Did you get straws?”

“What?”

“Did you get straws?” she sighed, looking at the iced coffees. 

“Fran--”

“Benji, I am sorry for freaking out, and I promise we can talk. But I don’t want these drinks to soak up my hands.”

“You want me to get straws so we can drink?”

“Yes.” she nodded. “I won’t walk away, I promise.” 

***

They wound up sitting at a bench under an oak tree. Nothing but the sound of quiet breathing was exchanged between them. It was hot outside. Fran could feel herself sweating. The white shirt was a mistake. If she knew she’d have to confront her feelings, she would have worn black. 

She took a sip of her coffee, nibbled on the plastic straw, and cursed herself. Iced coffee was shit without milk and sugar. 

“You look like you’re really enjoying that.” Benji said. 

She shrugged, leaning back into the bench. Normally she would have something witty to say back, but nothing came to mind. 

“Is this gonna be a pulling teeth situation?” 

“What?” 

“Pulling teeth,” he said, “I just want to be prepared.” 

Fran felt her cheeks get hot, her heart beat faster. She hadn’t heard him use that tone of voice before. His tempered exasperation pulled at her chest, made her feel her youth. She didn’t like it, but she couldn’t bring herself to be as annoyed as she wanted. 

“Again, what?” Maybe she had heard wrong.  

“You said we could talk--well, you promised. But you’ve been doing nothing but chew your straw for the better part of an hour.” 

“Excuse me?”

“You have!” he pressed his lips together with a sharp inhale. “Fran, what happened at Mr. Manchame’s? You were fine, and then you weren’t.” 

“I don’t know.” she said, looking at the bite marks on her straw. Her voice dropped. “Well, I do, but I don’t want to tell you.”

“Why not?” 

“Because it doesn’t make sense.” 

Though, if she was honest with herself, it did. Benji had always made sense, in all the little ways that built up over long phone calls and inside jokes. Realizing that so late hurt. Fran had been sure of so many things her whole life, and love was something she decided would come later rather than sooner. She didn’t picture herself sitting beside her best friend, watching him watch her. They were supposed to eat pancakes, ignore the impending doom of college, and have one last fun Manchame Morning. 

Fran wiped the sweat from her cup on her jeans and took a shaky breath. 

“Benji, you’re leaving tomorrow.” she said. “And I can’t wrap my head around what I’m feeling because I’m scared.”  

They looked at each other. Benji pushed up his glasses. Cicadas buzzed around them. 

“I’m scared, too. . . Maybe we’re afraid of the same thing.”

“God, I hope not.” Fran looked at her feet for a moment, bit down on her lip. “That wouldn’t be fair.”

“I don’t know if that matters, fairness. I don’t know if there’s time for it to matter.”

That earned him another shrug, a hopeless, timid sigh. 

“I have to say this, I guess,” he mumbled. “Fran, I. . . I don’t want to leave home without you knowing how much I care about you.” The words wiggled out. 

“I like you--you know, like I want to hold your hand and kiss you and send you heart emojis--and, um, I’m sorry for holding it in until the last moment, and the timing is probably shit, but I do. I want all of those things and I think you should know, so you do.”

 Fran didn’t say anything for a while. She wanted to go back to the diner. She wanted to eat that last pancake. She wanted to jump or something. More than anything, she wanted Benji, and he was right there, beet red in the face. Wearing that damned button-down. 

“I love you. More than I think I should.” 

Her hand met his awkwardly, they were both shaking. Neither knew what to do except sit there, hands held tight. They deserved time to be young and feel the sweat on each other’s fingers. So Fran moved closer until it wasn’t just their hands that touched, but their arms and legs and shoulders. And Benji relaxed against her, taking in the smell of cocoa butter as she placed her head on his shoulder.  It felt good, like a breath of fresh air. Fran closed her eyes, and tried to remember the feeling. She knew it wouldn’t last longer than a little while.